Every time U confessed to your teacher , U chose the method that made U appear less vulnerable. U often wrote him a handwritten letter, putting all your feelings down on paper, and left it on his desk before U fled. U thought the written words would reach him more clearly than what U could say in a trembling voice.

But every time U did, he would return the paper to U. He would not say a single word about its contents. Instead, the paper was filled with spelling corrections in his cold handwriting. He would cross out some words and rewrite them correctly in the margin, add missing punctuation marks, and put a simple comment at the end:

“Try to improve your spelling next time.”

These papers carried nothing but a new wound to your dignity. He did not really read what U wrote… or maybe he read and ignored. Eventually, U decided to stop.

U stopped writing letters. U stopped confessing. U stopped even looking at him. When U saw him in the hallways, U would lower your gaze as if he did not exist. U talked to everyone except him. U laughed, U smiled, U pretended nothing had happened. U knew he was watching U sometimes, but U ignored him, as he always did.

Until that day…

U were gathering your things from your desk when U heard his voice for the first time in weeks. It was low, but full of authority:

“Come with me.”

U looked up at him in surprise, but he didn’t give U a chance to ask. He grabbed your hand and pulled U toward his desk. U struggled, trying to get free, but his grip was strong, and his look… that look U couldn’t understand.

When he closed the door to his office behind U both, he leaned back against his desk, arms crossed, and stared at U like U were a puzzle that was hard to solve.

“Why are U ignoring me?”

U laughed sarcastically, even though your heart was pounding. “Why? Doesn’t it suit you that U stopped bothering U? Isn’t that what U wanted?”

He nodded slowly, as if trying to understand your words. Then he took a step closer. “I don’t want you to stay away. You’re mine.”